


Rossum's Knot

by Aegrisomnia89



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: BDSM Scene, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrisomnia89/pseuds/Aegrisomnia89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung has known  Ratchet a long time--long enough to know when the CMO's work has him at a breaking point. It's not easy talking to your friends about problems out of your control, and when said friend also happens to be the ship's psychotherapist...well, there's a solution for everything.</p>
<p>Usually it's not the one everyone's thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rossum's Knot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Second-Incommand](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Second-Incommand).



> I wrote this for a dear friend on tumblr, whom I love very much. It took me way longer than expected but it's done and I'm fairly happy with it. Not perfect, but this is my first TF fic. I hope everyone enjoys and I hope I did the characters justice.

“So that's it?”

“Excuse me?”

Rung stared at his friend's friend, at the abrasive grin curling up his face plates and the glinting optics; he tried to imagine Shockwave kissing that mouth with the tenderness he was known for and couldn't picture it.

Impossible—that mouth set in a dangerous curve and harbored a sharp glossa. Maybe there was something to be said for his wit, his intelligence, but Rung looked at the medic, one Ratchet, and saw only an arrogant mech hardly much younger than himself. He also saw a deeply coded sense of obligation, moral ambiguity, religious apathy, and a distinct lack of common decency—all within the first few breems of meeting.

“Excuse me?” Rung repeated, slipping his thumb between two fingers and squeezing just hard enough to feel a bit of pain. Next to him, the Senator snorted and slid a hand along Rung's thigh, fingers tensing up to distract him. Shockwave was an affectionate drunk, and drunk as he was he didn't want to see his friends fight—not when he had other plans.

“The color red,” Ratchet said. His grin did something funny to Rung. “You like it and that's that?”

“You expect a full dissertation?”

“ _Pits_ , no—just got me thinking, is all. You psycho-analyst types never waste an opportunity to show off, give me an exact reason for the Why and How of it. Y'know, 'Red suggests hidden aggression and frustration at one's lot in life blah blah', that sorta thing.”

Rung smiled, thin-lipped and polite.

“I'm off-duty.”

Laughter, snorting and loud, filled their booth for the next moment. They were drunk, Ratchet and Shockwave both leaning against one another and snickering like newbuilds. Later, Rung determined that Shockwave had been the only one who was truly fendered—Ratchet was just naturally coarse. Red was just a color though, and the Senator expressed a desire for all three of them to retire at his hab-suite.

That had been the plan from the very beginning, and while Rung harbored reservations about Ratchet, he enjoyed Shockwave's company and friendship too much to risk being rude.

There were, of course, the usual rumors surrounding Ratchet, as did anyone possessing his skill level, but these seemed to spawn from sources of utmost respect and importance—mecha who wouldn't lie, or couldn't. Ratchet: the most gifted surgeon in all Cybertron by day, partymech by night. No small wonder Shockwave had made friends, as the Senator loved to spend his free time at the various Praxian clubs, often until business shut down for the night.

It wasn't Rung's typical scene, but he understood the appeal, and thus had no reservations about joining in the fun every now and then.

And it wasn't as though Ratchet was completely without his charm—he was confident and in control, relying on his dry sense of humor and introspective view on socioeconomic norms to carry him through an evening. He was intelligent without the pretentious edge some medics developed.

_> Sarcasm developed in lieu?<_

Shockwave liked him, had met him a vorn or so ago at a Functionist gathering where Ratchet tried explaining that the dysphoria sometimes experienced by mecha forced to conform to societal expectations of their frame type was, in fact, a _medical_ diagnosis, not anti-functionist sympathies (though they could very well go frag themselves and see to it not to stop by _his_ clinic cause he'd shove his pede so far up their tailpipes they'd taste the slag he walked through to get here).

Naturally, the Senator was enamored, and invited Ratchet to Iacon for an in-depth meeting.

From there, they hit the clubs and dragged Rung along with them. Rung watched, as he preferred, curious and content as the rest of their evening unfolded. He did not enjoy Ratchet's company as he did Shockwave's, but there was no denying the other mech was fascinating.

It took several more cubes of expensive high grade before they finally decided to retire, and they did so back at Shockwave's extravagant hab-suite, with Ratchet grinning that grin and pulling the color red out of his sub space in the form of edible paint. Rung didn't ask _where_ he had gotten it from and Ratchet didn't volunteer any information apart from commenting that it'd look good against the Senator's plating, didn't Rung think? Shockwave, for all his drunken giggling, flung himself on the berth and begged the be painted like one of the pleasure drones from Kaon's Red Light district.

They dipped their fingers in the jar of sweet-smelling paint and drew thin, intricate patterns across Shockwave's chassis, quiet save for the squeak of metal digits and the pale puffs of steam escaping their lover's vents.

“Map of major fuel lines,” Ratchet explained of his half when he caught Rung staring. His fingers, stained red, were already buried in Shockwave's valve, pumping obscenely as lubricant dribbled down the curve of his aft. Rung stared and felt his fuel pump in his throat as his core temperature slowly rose.

“Yours mimics the Ten Points of Synergy?” the doctor asked as he pressed his thumb to anterior node, forcing a strangled cry from the Senator. Rung nearly fell over at the casual recognition of his own work and breathed a hapless “Yes!” before Ratchet buried his face between Shockwave's legs.

There was no talking after that.

Ratchet left early in the morning to return to his practice, the only marker of his presence in the little jar of red paint left by the berth, smudged with its contents and the wicked scent of luxury and ozone filling the room.

Rung, left only with the memory of his grin and the secretly fulfilling sensation of one who had his life's work validated by another equally brilliant mind, basked in the afterglow and the warmth of Shockwave's sleepy systems long enough to convince himself it hadn't been a dream.

  


**XXX**

  


“Rung.”

Weary optics met the kinder, bluer glass of Rung's filters and he smiled, offering a seat to the CMO with a gentle sweep of his hand.

Ratchet had made a point, after the initial appointment of Rung's station aboard the _Lost Light,_ to avoid the psyho-therapist apart from professional courtesy and medical necessity. Appointments sometimes came straight from the medbay, many times at Ratchet's insistence, but _always_ with his recommendation. It was an easy sort of symbiosis, and Rung never complained.

Too many of the fights that broke out were due in some part to unresolved turmoil resulting from the war, and too many mecha didn't have ready access to a willing therapist, as they did now. Most weren't even sure how sessions worked, and to Rung's abject horror, many even had the archaic idea that Rung was there to 'fix' something that was 'broken' inside of them. How many times a day had he sat down next to his patients and soothed their fears, explaining that they were not _broken_ and there was nothing that needed _fixing?_ How often had he explained that there was nothing wrong with _hurting?_ How many times had he explained the difference between _healing_ and fixing?

Ratchet, for all his posturing and standoffish lectures, had apparently felt the same, and neither of them had ever complained about their unspoken arrangement—until now.

The CMO crossed the length of Rung's moderately sized office, exhaustion apparent in every line of his frame and carelessly dropped onto the long couch on the other side of the desk. Rung leaned forward, elbows on the edge of his quartexly calendar and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

From observation alone he could tell that what he _knew_ Ratchet didn't amount to the worn down mech before him; the sheen had gone from his plating, the last coat of wax worn down from Delphi. Scrapes and cracks barely filled in with the medical nanites told of a self-repair system that wasn't functioning at full capacity, and that mouth, that clever and frightening mouth turned down into an even more frightening frown, enough to rival Ultra Magnus.

Rung tried to remember the last time he had seen a real smile, or witnessed a bit of that infamous sarcasm that held more than a cruel bite. He couldn't.

He couldn't and felt his interest piqued.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked. “I take it this is not a social call.”

“It _should_ be,” Ratchet sighed. “I should be here to invite you for drinks or a quick frag, not—“

The doctor winced for a moment and Rung patiently waited, fingertips fluttering and touching.

“Sorry, that came out—what I _meant_ was that I shouldn't be doing... _this_.”

Ratchet waved, the gesture encompassing Rung, the office, the ship, and probably the entire practice of psychotherapy itself, not to mention the underlying taboo of Ratchet visiting for anything less than professional discourse. Frustration bled into his field long enough for Rung to catch a glimpse before the feeling retracted, flattening around Ratchet in a protective shell of Don't Even Think About It.

But that was his job.

“You're actually overdue an appointment, now that I think about it,” Rung said, as if he had actually forgotten. “I understand that this may seem...an inconvenience, or even embarrassing—most bots do their best to avoid these sessions.”

It came with the territory. Most were more than happy to vent their frustrations and problems on anybot who would listen, up until they realized what he did for a living. Psychoanalysts—in a post-war environment, especially—were both needed and unwanted. In fact, many of the crew members who slunk into his office on Ratchet's orders were, at first, largely unwilling to participate. Even now, Rung could see that the CMO _needed_ to talk, but his body language said he'd rather jump out the nearest airlock.

That was why he had come, though. It wasn't his job to cooperate, but it _was_ Rung's to ease him into a state where he felt comfortable enough to open up.

“Would you like to talk? It can be about anything at all.”

“ _Anything?_ ”

“Anything.”

Rung watched as Ratchet cast his gaze around the room, looking for something to cling to, something he could use as a conversation piece that would help him avoid having to talk about what was _really_ bothering him. There wasn't much of interest—not to others. Rung kept his office tidy, the only personal effects his models, carefully mounted on the cabinet behind him. He had removed the glass his first day on the ship, determining that there shouldn't be anything off limits within his place of work. If his patients wanted to touch and examine, give themselves something to do with their hands while they talked (and they had), Rung welcomed it. It meant a little scuffing on the paint and sometimes a broken part, but he considered it a worthy idea, if it helped the mecha he swore to treat.

Realizing that there was nothing to use as a distraction, Ratchet slumped in his seat and played his hand across his face, palming his mouth and rubbing his chin. His optics flashed with brittle annoyance and he shuffled restlessly, as if considering the idea of leaving.

“You seem to have a lot on your mind,” Rung casually observed.

“Like you wouldn't _believe_.”

“Try me.”

Ratchet looked up, and this time Rung could almost believe this was the same mech who had once helped him and a good friend shut down a bar in Praxus, and then pulled out a bottle of edible paint from his subspace like he had been waiting all evening long to use it. The grin was still there, still wry and sharp, but the youthful arrogance had gone, leaving behind a dull sheen in the optics that Rung had come to recognize as an effect of age.

He leaned back in his seat and pushed himself up and out to join Ratchet on the couch. The desk, he felt, was a barrier neither of them needed at the moment.

“As friends,” Rung explained as he took a seat. “We _are_ friends, aren't we?”

“Primus, I sure hope so, considering all we've been through,” Ratchet murmured after a moment. His tone of voice indicated that he did not exclusively mean the war.

“So?”

“...I'm...tired, I suppose,” Ratchet began, after another long moment of silence passed before he found his glossa.

“In the medbay it's always the same—and not that I'm complaining—with the newbies wanting to lick my pedes, seek my opinion and trying to prove themselves every damn chance they get. Aid's a good one...but you know he misses Ambulon and feels like slag after what happened with Pharma. I think now, more than ever, he's trying, and he's gotten so _desperate_. It's like every time I turn around and he's _there_ , right under my aft when I'm trying to work. How am I supposed to get on when I gotta keep an optic on him?”

Rung nodded in silent sympathy, but suspected there was more to it than that. Ratchet's reputation was never one of suffering fools, but he also had his soft spots and was a widely-sought after mentor, both before and during the war. Some might even argue that he had enjoyed a wide range of varying successes throughout the course of the conflict, when medical professionals had been in great demand. Landing position close to Optimus Prime hadn't hurt matters, either, and though the two had become close friends, from what Rung heard of it, he also knew that Ratchet's skills had garnered him privilege and rank with the Autobot command.

His fame had come at great cost, both emotional and mental, and like most veterans Ratchet remained battle-hardened and cold-sparked during emergencies. It was only afterward, when the danger was over with that he could allow his medical protocols to online and show a bit of warmth and empathy with his patients. Rung found it fascinating, but didn't press the issue. Not yet.

“It's not even that he's not helping, 'cause he _is_ ,” Ratchet continued to vent. “I'm not feeling particularly benevolent most days, though; between patching up Whirl and patching up Whirl's _victims_ , I'm a little short on patience.”

“You have a great deal of responsibility,” Rung said quietly. “The CMO is one of the highest positions, and with it comes honor, yes, but also a burden that not many are prepared to bear. Are you...are you unhappy, Ratchet?”

It was a loaded question for many reasons, and as Ratchet fidgeted, Rung took the opportunity to ensure his door was locked. The gesture alone was statement enough, because while they didn't have to worry about zealot Functionists breaking in and carrying them off before a tribunal (many of which could end in _empurata_ ), the remembrance of the threat their kind had once faced was still prominent within their memory banks. Any mechanism who complained too loudly about his lot in life was ostracized as a renegade and stripped of his position.

Cybertron needed patriots—not mecha who looked to rise above the station Primus had crafted them for.

Ratchet visibly relaxed once Rung checked and double checked the locks, though the decanter Rung drew from his personal storage certainly aided. This was becoming less of the session it should have been and more of an intimate chat between two old friends. Ratchet frowned as Rung sat back down, but readily accepted the chilled cube and downed it all in one gulp. It took another serving of the old, pre-war Vosnian blend before the seams of his plating began a slow separation, just enough to let Rung know that it was okay—that _he_ was okay to continue.

“Whether or not I'm happy isn't the point anymore,” said the CMO. “I've gotta find a way to deal with this that doesn't make everyone around me so nervous. I've got First Aid in near hysterics half the time, Rodimus breathing down my struts, wanting answers, expecting me to fix this, fix that, fix _them_ , fix _eveything_.”

“You've tried talking to him.”

“You know good and damn well that aft-headed brat don't listen. He's so damn—he's a _good_ kid, he's just...y'know, he's _desperate_ , like the rest of them, and wanting approval I can't give. He wants answers and I don't have them.”

Brief pain flashed through Ratchet's EM field; almost too late Rung realized it wasn't a physical pain, but something spark-deep and far too personal to have simply slipped past the medic's fiercely guarded walls. Of course he had known Ratchet cared—they all did, in their own various and unique ways. He hid it beneath a gruff demeanor and no-nonsense attitude, and it didn't take a psychoanalyst to see that he did it, in part, to keep from being hurt. The realization was saddening, but endearing.

“What is it that _you_ want?” he asked kindly.

Ratchet jolted like he hadn't even considered the option.

“What I want doesn't matter,” he groused. “I've got a medbay to run and patients to oversee. There's life and death decisions to be made every time we make a fraggin' detour and I have been _entrusted_ with the lives of every bot aboard this ship. What I want falls so low on my list of priorities you'd probably need a turbofox to sniff it out.”

“I would argue that your needs are just important as everyone else's.... In fact, I'd dare say it ensures a better running of your facilities. You must remember to take care of yourself, in your caring for others.”

Ratchet bristled and all of the sudden the walls were back in place and his plating drawn uncomfortably tight.

“I refuel and I grab enough recharge when I can. I have been doing  _just fine_ on my own. You can ask Ultra Magnus—every audit on the medbay has been above reproach.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it—a drone can recharge and refuel, the simplest AI can do that and still carry out its programming, but _you,_ Ratchet, you are _not_ a drone. You have your health, mental and emotional, to think of as well as your physical. Driving yourself into the ground, working from cycle to cycle on autopilot is only going to hurt you. Ratchet...you're already hurting.”

“I don't have the luxury of many options,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chassis. “Being CMO means my time is not my own. You should know; you should know better than _anyone_ what's expected of us.”

He did know. How many sleepless nights had he spent pouring over old case files? How many breems spent counseling mecha who needed it, many times _pro bono?_ He _knew_ the struggle, lived it for most of his life—and that was the beauty of it. A long time ago it had taken an extensive reconstructive surgery to one of his tanks to open his optics and realize that in refusing himself simple pleasures—just a walk down the street or a cube of high grade—he was only hurting his patients. How could he advise them on how to heal when he was stripping his gears trying to keep up with everyone else?

How could _any_ of them perform their duties as necessary if they were not setting an example for others to go by? He wanted to suggest to Ratchet that if he were to take a break every now and then, ease up on his workload, First Aid might not be so nervous about the duties he was to inherit, nor so insistent on winning Ratchet's approval. It was the same advice he'd give Rodimus, though in reverse. There was such a thing as frivolity, and the trick was to _balance_ duty with leisure. Ultra Magnus would be the first to disapprove, no doubt, but Rung was confident in his conclusion.

Convincing Ratchet would take time; he was stubborn and set in his ways because there was no one there to drag him away from work and knock him out for a peaceful recharge. There _had_ been, but Drift was long gone and his absence hurt the CMO in ways almost everyone could see.

Therein formed an idea.

An idea absolutely against all medical and psychological protocol, but an idea nonetheless...and one that might, if Ratchet was amenable, prove mutually beneficial.

“You are allowing your responsibility to completely take over your life,” Rung said, settling a small hand over Ratchet's in an empathetic gesture. “Your intentions are so very good—you care deeply about your work and are very good at what you do, and this in turn makes you one of the best—if not _the_ best—doctor Cybertron's ever seen...but as your _friend_ I am telling you, for your own sake, that if you continue to wear yourself down, it will end poorly.”

Fingers twitched beneath his and a harsh sigh left his vents before Ratchet responded.

“I don't know what else to do,” he said. “I can't just... _stop_ working. I have to sign off on charts and medications and repairs; there's decisions I have to make that can't just be handed off to someone else. And don't think I haven't considered it, it's just... _ugh_ , this is _exactly_ why I don't talk about it. People are gonna look at me and think I'm losing it, that I don't got what it takes to run a medbay anymore, if I can't make the right decisions.”

The idea came back, stronger than ever, persistent in the way it knocked at the door of Rung's intake, wanting to be set free on the little island of their friendship. It was a good idea, and one he was certain Ratchet _would_ be partial to... _would have_ , had they been centuries younger.

“No one is ever going to look at you and think you've not done a good job,” Rung whispered, leaning in. “No one is perfect, either. The decisions you've made have the power to save lives and end others, and I know you do not make these decisions lightly. You do not need to punish yourself for imagined errors.”

“Then why do I _feel_ like I do?”

Rung drew in a deep vent and scooted closer, squeaking across the couch until his thigh brushed Ratchet's. His EM field flickered with the glimmer of suggestion and he felt Ratchet's interest engaged as the other mech turned to look at him.

“I have an exercise I'd like for you to try,” he continued to murmur. “It's...unconventional, but with your personal history and my experience I believe we might be able to work on some of these harmful thought processes that are impeding your self-care.”

“I have no idea what you're on about,” Ratchet said, his voice dropping down to a low meter. “Rung...you're starting to scare me a little.”

“Trust me,” Rung insisted, squeezing Ratchet's hand. “Allow me to...take care of you. Put you through a session...it _will_ help. If it becomes too much, I promise we'll stop.”

“ _What?_ ”

A data packet of information, of techniques and supporting studies, plus a none-too-subtle glimpse of Rung's own personal expertise floated across their commlink, and when Ratchet downloaded the information his optics went wide, brightening in the dim light of the office. His fuel pump stuttered and the _clickclickclick_ of his internal cooling system sounded off like cannon fire.

“Oh,” he swallowed. “ _Oh_....”

“Would you be agreeable to that?”

“I...uhm. Rung you're....” He looked down at his compatriot, all gentle smiles and innocent optics, waiting patiently for an answer.

“You're...I.... _Rung_ that's not even—“

“I did warn you it was unconventional.”

“Yeah, no slag!”

“Well?”

“....y'know something? Sure. Why the slag not?”

  


**XXX**

  


It took less than a week to make all the necessary arrangements. Both Rung and Ratchet cleared their schedules for the entire day and submitted a special request to Ultra Magnus—under Article 435.61 of the Autobot Code, one medical professional could remove another from active duty for medical treatment for as long as necessary. Ultra Magnus, satisfied by the code and mollified by Rung's assurance that the 'treatment' would only last one day, readily signed off the request.

Rung, for his part, managed to convince Rodimus to make a quick stop at an outpost for supplies and picked up all the items he needed for the upcoming session.

He was surprised, in a way, that Ratchet did not require further convincing. The mech's past had not yet caught up to the rumors on the _Lost Light_ , but Rung remembered the way he used to be, the way he used to laugh and drink and dance his way through the earlier centuries, the way he fragged and the way he simply _was_. It was a surprise because of the mech he had become, but not from the mech he had used to be, and Rung was pleased for it.

They had set the time for early in the morning, after they themselves would have usually woken and after the majority of the crew reported for their various duties across the ship. There would be quiet and privacy.

Rung heard his intercom buzzing just as he finished the suspension work on the ceiling, quickly clearing the tools he had borrowed from Perceptor and checking to see that he had everything in place before hurrying to answer the door.

“Welcome, Ratchet,” he smiled, ushering the doctor in. “So pleased you decided to keep your appointment. There are a few things left to discuss before I would like to get started, but—“

He trailed off, noticing the way Ratchet stared at the elaborate network of hooks and pulleys Rung had spent the better part of the evening constructing, all from memory. A short table nearby housed instruments some might have seen in a Decepticon's torture chamber: clamps, a paddle, an electrostatic flog, a plasma stick, various sized inhibitor rings, and a stack of clean polishing cloths.

These tools, however, were immaculate. The handles were carefully wrapped in wide strips of treated leather intricately beveled with elegant glyphs that insinuated a sense of belonging. The handles were worn, shaped for the fit of Rung's hands—well loved, well used, and well taken cared of. Rung watched, observing the way Ratchet took in one deep vent and then smiled.

“Looks like fun,” he said, and his tone did not carry even a hint of mockery, though Rung could sense the hesitation blooming throughout his field.

“There are rules, of course,” he said, leading Ratchet over to the area he had prepared. “We can stop at any time. I'll need for you to share with me a word we can use if you want to end the session—something you would not use during interface that cannot be mistaken for anything else. If there's anything you see here that you do not wish for me to use, then of course, by all means, tell me.”

Ratchet looked back up at the hooks and down at the coil of soft rope underneath the table, and back to the inhibitors in a neat little circle. He reached out and touched the flog, sensitive fingers tracing the glyphs at the base of the handle.

“Delphi as my safeword,” he said with a shaky vent. “And please...don't blindfold me. I want to see what you're doing.”

“And how do you feel about interfacing?”

“ _Primus..._ I don't know. Maybe?”

“That's perfectly fine,” Rung said with a small smile. “In this kind of play, you'll learn one of the cores is laying out boundaries; a 'yes' can always become a 'no', and a 'maybe' can go either way. A 'no', however, can never be anything but. It makes this easier for both parties. Now, this session, as I briefly explained the last time we met, is going to help you address some of the difficulties you've had managing your responsibilities. We'll start easy and then, perhaps if you desire another session, we'll go farther. My rules are simple: you will wear a collar at all times and address me as 'Master'. You will do as I say, when I say it, and you will not disobey me. Is that understood?”

A shudder worked its way through Ratchet's plating and he shuddered until his kibble rattled; Rung felt a secret thrill penetrate his core.

“What...what are you gonna to do to me?”

“I'm going to punish you for your imagined mistakes...and then I am going to make you see that you really are very silly for believing you've done wrong.”

Ratchet made a small noise, his fingers curling around the flog with enough pressure to crack the lining of the leather. He turned, optics wide, and watched as Rung removed his spectacles. When he did, something in the very atmosphere changed, and he felt a sudden difference fall over the smaller mech. He vented hard, very aware at the throttle in his engine.

“Now,” Rung said, and there was an authority to his voice Ratchet had _never_ heard before _,_ not in all their years of acquaintance. “Now, down on your knees, where you _belong_.”

Never had he obeyed an order so fast, sinking down to the soft mat beneath his pedes with a dull _thunk_ that rattled up through his spark and into his processor where it registered as an ache he didn't feel. Optics widened as Rung drew from his subspace a collar, obviously old and worn, but leather shining with an oil treatment that made it smell warm and soothing. Ratchet leaned forward, holding out his hands as Rung prompted him with a look. Clasping it around his neck without looking, he only half heard Rung's direction, explaining how the collar put them on different ground, how he was now the submissive to Rung's dominant.

He had to respect the collar, just as Rung had to respect the safeword, and the boundaries. When it came off, they would once more be on equal footing. Rung, for his part, felt another rush as Ratchet looked back up at him, optics blue and flickering, hands tightening into fists across his thighs.

“No speaking unless I ask you a question, or give you permission,” Rung murmured, leaning in to touch Ratchet's cheek. “No backtalk. Understand?”

“Yes....”

“Yes, _who?_ ”

“Yes...Master....”

Rung smiled and bent at the knees to retrieve the long coil of rope.

“Lie on your back,” he ordered, tone sharp and unusual. Ratchet moved slower than was expected and earned himself a sharp cuff to the side of the head.

“No wonder you're so insecure,” Rung sneered. “You can't even follow orders when you _do_ receive them.”

Ratchet felt the barb cut deeper than he had expected and automatically opened his mouth to retort, which Rung treated with another quick blow. It didn't _hurt_ , but it _stung_ , and the offense wounded his pride more than his plating. Ratchet quickly laid on his back and glared up at Rung, not entirely sure this was a brilliant idea, but not yet willing to give up.

“Spread your legs.”

Rung had to kneel on his chassis to slip the rope over and around his back, looping it once, twice, three and four times, fixing it to lay flat in neat rows. Once over the chassis and under his arms, then again at his midrift, looping around the second set of rope to connect back to the first, and this he did three more times before shimmying down his frame to kneel between his spread thighs.

Ratchet tried hard not to squirm, wondering if he would be punished even though he had not been commanded otherwise, and then _jumped_ when he felt Rung's small, warm hand over his interface panel. He snapped his head up in time to see the rope disappear over his hip and around his thigh, looping through one end and then a know at the upper corner of his valve cover—another on the other side, then the same loops—three of them—around the other thigh. It pressed tight against his plating, right into the seam of his thigh where the sensitive wires and cabling strung around his protoform, and when Rung pulled it _tighter_ he arched his back, hissing at the sudden burst of pleasure.

His helm hit the mat and he arched again when small and clever fingers plucked at the ropes, testing their tautness and the strength of the knots. Rung had tied him so quickly he wondered how much experience the other mech had—it came as a surprise. Ratchet never would have guessed.

Rung took the remainder of the rope and pulled it up at three points of suspension: one at the middle of his thoracic plating, and the other two at either hip bearing. It took a short step stool to reach the hooks, but Rung worked quickly, like he had done this thousands of time before, and cleared the mat.

“There,” he said, and there was a definite breathlessness to his vocoder. “I'm going to lift you up a bit, just a bit so we can get started.”

There was the noise of an automatic pulley system warming up with a squeak of chains and then Ratchet felt a distinctive _tugging_ sensation before his aft lifted right off the ground, thighs still spread and the ropes digging into his joints hard enough for the warm pleasure to become hot, albeit brief, pain. He cried out, lifting his arms to grab onto the ropes, but Rung was there, grabbing his hands and _pulling_.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he called. “I did not give you _permission_ to touch, now did I?”

Ratchet huffed in exasperation and then in dismay when he realized that there was something cool and soft encircling his wrists, and suddenly he could not move his hands more than a few scant inches in either direction. Craning his neck, he could see the leather cuffs Rung had slipped around his wrists, and the thick hook on the floor they were attached to. He couldn't move, couldn't help himself, couldn't do _anything_ , and as his pedes were locked in similar arrangements, Ratchet realized that was the entire _point_.

Rung had effectively robbed him of his control, with the collar, with the ropes and the shackles, and with his rules.

No control....

“That was abysmal,” Rung said as he came back into view at Ratchet's side. “What's the use if you cannot follow orders like you care? Is that it, you don't care that I went through all this trouble for you? Are you not grateful?”

Ratchet licked his lips. That was a rhetorical question; he wouldn't be here if he weren't grateful for the help...even if he couldn't see it. Rung must have seen his confusion and pinched Ratchet's chin. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“If I ask a question, I expect you to answer it, not stare at me like an incompetent _idiot_.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Yes, you're an idiot?”

“No. I _am_ grateful.”

“Then _act_ like it. What do you say?”

“Th-thank you, Master.”

Cool air filled the space where Rung had been and belatedly Ratchet realized his core temperature was steadily rising and there was a tingle in his interface equipment he hadn't noticed before. It was Rung's voice, he rationalized. That had to be it—the pitch and timbre, it was different. Still Rung, of course, but he was _teeming_ with confidence, with authority and control. It was different and strange, and Ratchet tried to assure himself it was in no way, really, really _hot_.

He wriggled, testing his limits with the rope, and found that with his legs secured as they were, he had some leverage to push himself with his heels if he wanted to. Rung stood at the table, thin fingers ghosting over his tools until he settled for the plasma rod. Its weight was a comfort, and he turned back to Ratchet with cold and practiced anger in his expression.

“I shouldn't expect much from you, though,” he said. Ratchet felt a couple of his lines run cold.

“Word is, you're not doing your job... _word is_ , you've been slacking on duty. Is that right? Is that what you do when you're supposed to be working and saving lives?”

Ratchet opened his mouth but nothing came out but static. A reset later and he answered almost too late, “Y-Yes, Master.”

“As expected. It's a wonder they allow you in charge. No telling what's going on in that derelict medbay of yours.”

The energon prod crackled to life, the charge at mid-strength and sweeping up and down the length of the prod in blue static arcs. Ratchet stared at it, his optics wider than they had ever been. His plating tingled and his valve immediately clenched at the thought of what Rung was going to do with it.

“You're a failure aboard this ship,” Rung condemned, crouching and holding the rod inches away from his ventral plating. “They allowed you in this position you don't even deserve, and you have the _gall_ to continue? You should hand in your resignation _right now!_ ”

_ZZZAPP!_

The rod struck him against his stomach, the charge rippling underneath the plating until it flared in response, and then crackled underneath to the protoform. Ratchet gasped and then yelled as the brief pain shot through his sensornet. Rung moved again, striking him at the sides and chassis, leaving behind dark scorch marks that stung like the Pits.

“Why haven't you gone to Rodimus, or Ultra Magnus? Why haven't you begun training First Aid to take over? Is it because you're afraid? You're a _coward?_ You _disgust_ me.”

_ZZAP!_

_ZZZZAAAAPP!_

_ZAPZAP!_

Ratchet twisted and _howled_ as Ring continued his assault, wriggling as much as his bonds would allow and helpless to repel the sharp pain of the prod in the joints of his arms and neck, his hips and knees. It was more pain than he had expected and a part of him felt that he would be justified in using his safeword now, because this was more than he had thought, more than he could _bear_.

_ZZAAAAAP!_

“How sorry are you for being a _failure?_ ”

“I'm s-sorry! I'm _sssorry!_ ” Ratchet sobbed, desperate to keep that prod away from him.

“I'm not convinced— _how_ sorry are you?”

_ZZAAAPPZZAP!_

“ _Ah-ah-aahh! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm **sorry!**_ ”

_ZZAAAAP!!_

“You're weak and outdated—that's why you can't even bother to do your job right. You try and try and try to make up all you can, but your spark's not into it anymore. You're old—you miss the details. You make _mistakes_. Isn't that right?”

Ratchet whined and shied away from the next series of strikes, but Rung found his weak points and abused them until he could smell the faint burning of circuitry and oil.

_Delphi!_ his mind screamed, but Ratchet pressed his lips tight and shuttered his optics.

Everything Rung told him...was everything he told _himself_. The pain...it was something he could deal with, something he _deserved_ , and he sobbed when he felt the prod between his legs, stinging his thighs and his knees until he shook in the ropes, shivering and wiggling uselessly.

He deserved to be called a coward, to be called a failure, because he _was_. Rung was right, and this is what he deserved.

But the pain stopped. The buzz of the prod clicked off and the tool was placed back on the table, next to the flog that Rung chose next. He was so quick and silent, but when he neared Ratchet could feel the heat rolling off of him in waves, could hear the near silent churn of his cooling fans, and could feel the traces of lust spreading throughout his EM field, boldly curling against Ratchet and teasing him.

The pressure in his valve increased tenfold, and his spike ached to be released. Pain like that left behind a burn so pleasurable it was like waking up from being fragged through the berth by a mech twice his size. Ratchet groaned and made eyes at Rung—at _Master_ —but the other mech said nothing.

“I think you're taking this too well,” Rung soothed, stepping over one of Ratchet's legs to stand between them. “I'm still not getting the impression that you're sorry. Are you sorry?”

“Y—yes, Master.”

“I don't think you are. You enjoy the perks of your position a little too much. Say you're sorry.”

“I'm _sorry_ , Master”

“You don't sound sincere enough. Do I need to bring back the prod?”

Ratchet whimpered a pathetic 'no' as clever fingers delved back between his legs, this time pressing at his panel with insistence. He started, lifting his head, but could barely see over the top of his chassis; just the dome of Rung's helm, the tip of his optical ridges.

“Important mech like you can get away with anything—and to think there are those who look _up_ to you....”

Fingers and then the soft strings of the flog against the insides of his thighs, over the ropes biting into his wires and cords, trailing over sore plating and sore joints, and Ratchet soaking it all in with small gasps and whimpers.

“Open your valve cover.”

_Shnck._

He felt lubricant slip out of his valve and drip down his aft. _Primus_ , he hadn't realized how wet he was. Another sharp _click_ and his spike pressurized right in Rung's face, thick and twitching. He canted his hips on instinct and then froze as those fingers disappeared from the rim of his valve and Rung stood up, his face a mask of anger.

“Are you in charge?” he asked. Ratchet shook his head as fast as he could. He wasn't in charge, he wasn't, he just—he couldn't help himself, it was all too much and he—

“No,” Rung supplied, “you're _not_ , which is why _you're_ wearing the collar and _I'm_ giving orders. You just can't give up your authority, no matter where you are. Unbelievable. You should be _ashamed_ of yourself.”

The flog came up over his shoulder, and then down again over the inside of his thigh, hard and fast with a snap. Ratchet flinched, but the pain wasn't as bad—definitely not as bad as the prod. Rung repeated the act, flogging the other thigh with three short snaps, and then back to the other. Warmth spread through Ratchet's sensors and crept straight up the lines to his valve, where, to his horror, he felt another trickle of lubricant leak free.

Rung snorted and swiped his fingers through the lubricant, holding them up for Ratchet to see.

“Filthy,” he sneered. “ _Disgusting_. You can barely control yourself and they expect you to run an entire medbay. And you _agree_ to it.”

The flog came down again and again until his thighs were tender and aching. His spike twitched haplessly, beads of transfluid gathering at the tip as his valve clenched around nothing. Rung took notice and trailed the flog over and around the base.

“Do you want me to touch your spike?”

Ratchet glanced up, immediately wary. What sort of punishment would he receive for admitting that, yeah, he would _love_ it if Rung were to get him off like that. _Master_ , he mentally corrected himself. A tentative nod was all he managed.

“And your valve?”

Another nod, slightly more enthusiastic.

“You think you deserve it?”

A very, very slow shake of his head, and Rung seemed pleased. He stood, leaving the flog balanced on Ratchet's stomach.

“You're greedy,” he said, “which is to be expected. Coward, incompetent, _glutton_...I'm not surprised. I am pleased, however, that you recognize that you don't _deserve_ to feel anything other than pain for what you've done. We're going to work on that.”

He returned with an inhibitor ring and four small clamps. Ratchet shifted uncomfortably as he held them up for inspection, and for Ratchet's benefit. The ring looked like it had a clasp, and might be just big enough to fit around the base of his spike. The clamps were small, but with wide clips.

“You will not overload unless I give you permission,” Rung said, kneeling again between Ratchet's legs. “I don't trust you to follow that order, though, given that you can't even follow your own rules, and you've done a _terrible_ job, thus far, of following mine. I'm going to make sure you don't cheat.”

The inhibitor was cold around his spike, spiraling tight and pinching shut sensitive inner lining that ejaculated transfluid. Ratchet groaned and shifted his hips, and moaned again when he felt fingers on the outer folds of his valve. The puffy, slick lining pinched between two fingers hurt, and then hurt more as Rung fastened two clamps on each side. He whined and struggled, the pain constant and unlike the earlier flogging.

Speaking of which, Rung was tapping the handle of the tool against the underside of Ratchet's spike, forcing it to lie against his pelvic array.

“What's it like, I wonder, holding the lives of the crew in your hands and not doing your best to help them.”

_Ouch_.

It hurt to hear that, hurt in a way different than when he repeated the same thing to himself. Ratchet shuttered his optics—a quick snap of the flog to the underside of his spike had him gasping and opening them wide.

“I must not be doing a good enough job—your punishment in my hands and I'm not doing all that I can to make you truly sorry—but at least your _life_ isn't at stake. How can you sleep at night? How can you look at yourself in the mirror and call yourself a medic?”

The flog came down close to his valve, right on the anterior node—it came down hard enough to make Ratchet _scream_ , and he thrashed, tilting his hips up against the flog as it remained in place, pressing hard against the node and making him scream again. Rung flogged him on the valve, his spike, his thighs and his stomach until he could no longer stand it, until he openly sobbed and begged him to stop, begged him for release, begged him for forgiveness—but not once did the word _Delphi_ cross his lips.

  


**XXX**

  


Rung was pleased. This was going much better than expected, and Ratchet, strung out before him was a shivering, shaking, wet mess, venting hard and begging him as ribbons of light created a haze around his optics. Condensation gathered on their plating, water running in rivulets down arms and legs and sides and Rung couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this.

Mutually beneficial _indeed_.

Desire would have had him take Ratchet farther than the poor mech was prepared to go. He would have loved to break Ratchet down and send him into a nonverbal state, but so few could handle being driven that far into the submissive role. He wanted to think Ratchet strong enough, but he didn't want to push their first session to those limits.

Looking over his sub, Rung took note of all the marks, the paint chipped from the plating of his thighs, the scorch marks on his chassis, the straining spike and sopping wet valve, and he decided that this was almost enough.

_Almost_.

He set the flog down and picked up the prod again, setting it to its absolute lowest setting. At this level it would cause nothing more than vaguely tingling sensation—nothing painful, of course, but when applied directly to a sensor, would deliver a very intense pulse of pleasure-pain. Considering the valve was _filled_ with sensitive nodes, it would drive Ratchet into overload faster than he'd be able to handle.

It was what Rung wanted, and his own interface array pulsed with the thought of seeing Ratchet given himself over to a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, and pain so subtle it felt like pleasure. It felt...powerful, _good_ to do this.

“I'm tired of punishing you,” he said, brandishing the prod close to Ratchet's face, tapping the tip to his cheeks to demonstrate the low charge. “You should know by now what a bad medic you are—how you don't deserve to be CMO. You don't deserve to be in charge, or in any position of responsibility. You're _not_ a responsible mech...you don't deserve the trust you're given, and you don't deserve that hero worship your reputation affords you. You're _unworthy_.”

The prod dragged down his plating, over the tip of his spike and down its length—and _that_ made Ratchet jolt a bit—all the way to the top of his valve. Rung knelt, making himself comfortable and slid his fingers under the tight ropes, which neatly framed his valve in a box. Ratchet moaned as his Master slid the tip of the prod over his spread valve, nudging the clamps and reminding him of their presence.

Penetration came slowly, first by rotating the prod and slicking it with lubricant; its conductivity enhanced the charge, which was part of the fun as using them. It was too thin on its own to really get a big mech like Ratchet off, otherwise.

“Remember what I said,” Rung snapped, tapping Ratchet hard on his sore thigh to make sure he was listening. “Don't you _dare_ overload until I say so.”

The prod slid into the CMO's dripping valve so easily Rung was almost worried, and Ratchet, fighting off a near instant overload, _wailed_ until static and binary bled into his vocalizer. He dug his heels into the mat and pushed up, angling his hips over and over, trying to thrust back against something was too thin to fill him up in the way he wanted. It was long enough to hit those oft-neglected nodes at the ceiling of his valve, and the charge...he didn't know _what_ to make of the charge, of course, but it felt like he was coming undone from the inside.

His poor valve rippled and calipers fluttered as they attempted to take hold of the smooth prod, but they found no purchase and the charge constantly stimulated the nodes, and he clenched and clenched until he thought he was being driven _mad_.

Another wail and it was half Rung's designation, half unintelligible sob, and Rung began to move the prod, pulling it all the way out and pushing it all the way back in, turning it with sharp flicks of his wrist. Ratchet pulled at his bonds, the gears in his shoulders straining and clicking in futility as he tried to bring them down, to touch his aching spike and rip the inhibitor off.

Rung watched, desire rising and fans churning to bring in more cool air to assuage his systems, and it was hot, just about the hottest thing he had seen in the past few million years. He felt he could waste the entire day there, with Ratchet suspended in ropes and begging pitifully. He could have kept it up...but Ratchet couldn't.

His bucking turned violent, and light ribbons poured from his optics in fantastic displays of color and oral lubricant dripped from the sides of his intake as he worked himself into a near frenzy. He was coming absolutely _unraveled_.

Rung ramped up the charge to the next setting and retracted his own interface panels; his first three fingers were buried in his valve before the cover had completely slid away, and he gasped at how _tight_ he clenched around his own digits. Often he would forgo his own pleasure for the sake of his partner—it had been _centuries_ since had last seen any action.

_Oh, Ratchet_ , he thought to himself as he found his anterior node with his thumb.

He ripped the clamps off one by one, each pinch a new wave of ecstasy Ratchet was forced to ride out, each one taking him to the crest of overload and back down as the inhibitor prevented him from overloading. His valve clenched so hard Rung could barely slide the prod out, and so he turned it up to the next setting, something he had never had to do before.

It _excited_ him.

“Beg me for it,” he demanded, grabbing Ratchet's outer node and pinching it cruelly.

He screamed again, vocoder on the brink of giving out, but somehow he managed to reset it and out poured an absolute litany of pleas—all so sweet, so perfect, so _Ratchet_. He had forgotten the 'Master' portion and just called Rung's name, begging him for something, for anything, for his mouth, his fingers, his valve, his spike— _anything_ so long as it got him off.

Rung didn't need encouraging, and against his _professional_ judgment he climbed atop Ratchet, straddling his hips while they bounced precariously from the hooks in the ceiling. He stretched across the expansive chassis and undid the collar, letting it fall to the floor and lowering the barrier of dominant and submissive.

For this, it was necessary.

Rung held Ratchet's thick spike upright, pressing its broad head to his wet valve and groaning as he slowly sank down. He was tight from years of celibacy, and Ratchet was not a small mech by any means—his spike was fat, thickening in the middle to almost uncomfortable diameter. The base was an impossibility that might see better success with a little more preparation.

Moaning, Rung brought a leg down to balance himself—he couldn't take anymore without pain and possible damage. He was full, so full he felt close to bursting, and his HUD blinked with multiple capacity warnings he closed down as quickly as they came up.

Ratchet's whimpering and sobbing turned to heady moans and his hips moved uselessly as Rung set his other knee against a scuffed hip to try and raise himself up. The slow drag of that thick spike against overtaxed calipers and desperate sensors was almost more pleasure than he could bear at the moment; he knew he'd be done too soon if he kept it up.

Dropping himself back down, both of them cried out, one grasping at his own hands bound together, the other curling his fingers around a thickset waist.

“Take that fraggin' inhibitor _off!_ ” Ratchet ground out, and when Rung looked up his optics were clearer, but the look of desperation was still remarkable. His jaw dropped before he could master himself, and Rung fumbled between his legs for the clasp on the little ring. It popped off with a metallic ding and dropped to the floor, and it was that moment when Rung only had time to push himself up and drop himself back down two more times before Ratchet was overloading with abandon, thrashing his head and pulling at his restraints again and thrusting up as hard as he could with his heels dug into the mat.

Rung cried out, arching his back and clinging to Ratchet so hard he left small fingertip dents in his hip, but that fat head hit his ceiling nodes just right and he felt himself break as overload rushed his systems and fried his circuits. There was a _clunk_ from beneath them as Ratchet's valve expelled the prod, and it was only then Rung realized he had left it inside him. A brief moment of guilt overtook him—a good dominant did not forget so easily—but one look at Ratchet's face eliminated that feeling.

Optics dimmed lazily, flickering and shuttering open and shut as his chassis heaved, lubricant dripping down his aft in spades and leaking from the near seal of Rung's valve around his spike. That dazed, sloppy, yet utterly satisfied look of a well fragged mech was something Rung would never tire of, and it was with firm reluctance that he lifted himself off of Ratchet with a squelchy little _pop_ and stumbled back to the table, looking for those cleaning cloths.

Easy as it was to tie Ratchet up, untying took a little longer, as there was a great deal less lucidity and cooperation. Rung worked silently, using the pulley to lower Ratchet back to the mat and stripping the ropes off in a pile to be washed later. The shackles came last, and once he was free Rung began to clean his plating.

“You did so well,” he said softly, after gathering his spectacles. “I'm so very proud of you...for your first session, you did beautifully, and were so responsive, so wonderful.”

He cleaned between the legs first, gently swiping up every last trace of lubricant and transfluid, polishing down Ratchet's depressurizing spike and the rim of his valve so they gleamed. Another cloth he had wet down went to the metal burns on the insides of his thighs and the joints of his legs, as well as a little oil extract to soothe the ache.

“You've done so well...and you deserve to know, Ratchet, that you are every inch worthy of your position. Your responsibilities, though heavy, are yours because you are the _best_ mech for the job. Everyone knows it, too. Ultra Magnus, Rodimus, and myself. The crew feels safe because you are here.”

As he spoke, he felt Ratchet's EM field brushing against his own, an affable longing that bade Rung open up and allow their fields to meld. He did his best to express a sense of forgiveness, of comfort and respect through the connection, feeling it would help. When he felt Ratchet's hand on his thigh the moment he moved up to clean the small burns on his chassis, he knew it had.

“What you tell yourself is unhealthy. Stress from lack of a full cycle of recharge, or insufficient fueling, is only going to make you feel less productive, which in turn makes you feel less capable of doing your job. You are allowed to have a life outside of the medbay. You are allowed to be _happy_ , and find happiness in being with and among others.”

“I know...,” Ratchet rasped, his hand lifting to Rung's chin. “I...I get it now. Thank you.”

Rung smiled and wiped the cloth across Ratchet's chevron, drying beads of condensation.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “We lost our rhythm there at the end, but overall...overall I think it went very well.”

A happy chuff left Ratchet's vents and a cautious smile crawled up his faceplates. It was a different sort of smile than Rung was used to seeing, but no less charming.

“It was amazing,” Ratchet said. “I _feel_ amazing. It felt good to...hear those things and feel pain for it. Is that bad, that I felt good for being beat?”

“Not at all,” Rung said, shaking his head. “The physical punishment is meant to mimic the mental anguish you put yourself through when thinking those thoughts. It's safer for someone else to dole out the punishment, and quite frankly, I think that is what you'd prefer.”

“Yeah...so, then, what's the other stuff?”

“Ah. I did mention, yesterday, the importance of taking care of yourself. If you don't mind me saying, you looked like you needed to let loose.”

Ratchet grinned, and _that_ was more like the mech he had known.

“I didn't know you had it in you,” he teased. “I won't lie—as good as I feel now, that was...unbelievable. You were great. It didn't really click then but, taking all my choices away, taking away my ability to make decisions...I don't know. I felt free.”

“I thought that might help.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, long enough for the silence to turn awkward. Ratchet began to shuffle and test his movement after a breem and Rung jumped to his feet with a wince to fetch some mid-grade.

“You okay?” Ratchet asked, seeing the slight limp Rung returned with.

“Just a little stretched, I'm afraid,” he said truthfully. “It's been a long time since I last interfaced, and you're one of the larger partners I've had. Again, I do apologize, we should have set absolute boundaries for interface beforehand—I did not make a very good impression with a dominant's responsibility.”

Ratchet shrugged and took a long sip from his cube.

“It's fine,” he said. “Been not as long for me, but definitely some of the best. I'm...I'd go again, for another session. If you're interested in teaching me.”

“Certainly. I'd be more than happy to help you overcome yo—“

“Not what I was really referring to.”

Rung tilted his head and lowered himself back down to the floor, brows arched in polite curiosity. Ratchet was looking anywhere but his face, looking for something to hold on to. He did that often, Rung realized, just like a defense mechanism.

“I was sitting here thinking, and as much as I fragged around back on Cybertron, I never really got into this kind of scene. It always struck me as not my thing; I'm a bossy old mech, you know me. I never figured myself for someone who could enjoy that kind of position, being tied up and treated like slag, calling another bot 'Master' with a collar...but you made it work. I liked it. Slag, I _loved_ it.”

“You'd be interested in continuing our sessions without the guise of therapy,” Rung summarized, his tone a deadpan as he tried to process what Ratchet was insinuating.

“Why not?” Ratchet shrugged. “If you're up to it, I mean. You're the one saying I needed to find happiness with others, right?”

And he _had_ said that, hadn't he.

“I-I suppose,” he sputtered, trying to find a dignified way to express the _extreme_ pleasure he felt at the prospect of gaining and training a mech willing to become his submissive. “It's not going to be easy, you know.”

It was Ratchet's turn to raise his brow.

“Nothing fun is _ever_ easy. What do you say? Think we can make this a thing?”

_Yes, yes, YES!_ Rung wanted to shout.

He settled for a small smile and sat up on his knees to give Ratchet a small, sweet kiss. He tasted like his midgrade, his lips a little larger than Rung's and a perfect fit.

“I think I'd like that very much,” he said.

 


End file.
